


I can't stop now because I'm dancing

by QueenBoo



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Howard is also a bit kinky, Idiots in Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Vince is a bit kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: Howard hates clubbing. Unless on specific person is with him.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 20
Kudos: 47





	1. Deploy the battery

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from My Chemical Romance's Song, Planetary (GO!). This idea came to me and refused to leave, so it just sort of fell out of my head! Enjoy my ramblings,

Howard hates clubbing. 

Hates actually isn’t a strong enough word. He’s sure, being the well read man he is, he can come up with one better. There’s a veritable dictionary lodged in his head for moments just like these. 

He despises it. Detests it. _Loathes it._ Frankly, finds the whole thing a bit repugnant. 

You get the idea. 

There’s no reason that Howard would ever have for dragging himself away from a perfectly good book and inserting himself into the cramped sweaty space of a nightclub. Well. That’s a bit of a white lie. There’s one reason. One, insufferable, irritatingly convincing reason. And his name is Vince Noir. 

As if by some deep instilled instinct (you think about Vince, therefore you have to _see him_ ) his eyes search through the mass of writhing bodies in an attempt to track him down. It’s like looking over the form of one great creature the way it all moves in sync to a repetitive beat. Limbs sticking in all directions and the colours of various dancer’s box dyed hair all blending together to the point that Howard thinks he can see the shape of a face forming. If he squints. 

It’s glaring at him. _You don’t belong here._ It says. Trust, Howard _knows_ he doesn’t. 

And in the mouth of the beast is the target of his attention. 

Vince is a lot of things - that’s kind of his _thing_ \- He’s a punk. A mod. A goth. Prince of Camden. Shoreditch Vampire. He’s a blank canvas. Give him a title and watch him paint himself into a masterpiece to fit in. 

He’s none of those things to Howard. 

To Howard he is terminal velocity. 

He’ll steal your breath metaphorically from across the room and physically when he eventually backs you into a wall and sticks his tongue down your throat; swallows your gasps with a feline grin and a threatening glint to his eyes. 

As he is now, he is at his most dangerous. 

The crowd parts around him like the red sea because without being told they all know that they _can’t touch._ They’re fascinated anyway, how can they not be? Vince moves to a beat of his own creation. Rolling hips and arms stretched above his head as if he’s going to pluck the stars directly from the sky and present them to you. Every movement is calculated from the way he flicks his hair to the bounce in his step. 

Vince dislikes the phrase ‘ _d_ _ance like no one’s watching’_ with a passion. He thinks there is no point in dancing at all unless there is someone there to watch you. To appreciate you. 

Appreciating is an understatement of what these Camden Trendies are doing. 

It makes something dark and primal growl in the pit of Howard’s stomach to see it. Their hunger, unabashed on their features as they appraise what on almost every level is _his._ But at the same time, there’s a slow dribble of pride. Knowing how bad they want and yet in the same instance being safe in the knowledge that they can’t _have._

This display isn’t for them. 

Vince blinks his pretty blue eyes open and without a seconds pause they land on Howard. Just to make sure he’s still watching. 

As if he’d be looking anywhere else. 

The tease catches his lower lip between his canines, drags his fingers ghost light down his neck, over his chest. Howard’s gaze follows the movement willingly. Vince’s smirk says, _like what you see?_

Howard only narrows his gaze in response; _Tart._

It does nothing to deter the behaviour. Has the opposite effect. Kicks it up a gear. 

He couldn’t be more obvious what he wanted if he was wearing a neon sign. Vince is an effervescent lover - he gets into moods sometimes. Ones in which he expects Howard to reign him back in. By _whatever means necessary_. 

When earlier, he had thrown some clothes he deemed acceptable at him, and said, “We’re going out.” Howard had known this is what he was in for. 

That didn’t mean he was going to hand it over without first making him work for it. 

Even before they were involved, this relationship often operated on a healthy dose of push and pull. An eternal game of tug of war. The power in their dynamic shifted like the changing gears in a car. Nights like these Vince didn’t want to hand it over, he wanted it taken from him. 

And he has no qualms about how far he will push this game to get what he wants. 

One of the trendies gets too close. It was only a matter of time. When you worship at the altar of Noir being near him can blinker you. Too wrapped up in the religious experience of his aura that you forget yourself. 

Vince doesn’t push her away fast enough for Howard’s liking. Let’s his small hands linger on her waist just a fraction of a second too long. Flashes a smile that is dipping too far into charming. 

The game is up. 

Five long strides find him at Vince’s side, thick fingers wrapped around his elbow and his head dipping low to murmur, “Home.” into the other man’s ear. 

He doesn’t bother suppressing his shiver. Allows himself to be pulled bodily towards the exit. 

Once over he wouldn’t have dreamed of behaving like this. He still tries to avoid it if he can. Losing himself to the baser screech of _mine_ that is singing in his blood _._ Wasn’t the kind of thing to be proud of _._ But Vince had a way of igniting something inherently animal in you by simply existing in your vicinity. 

And it’s not like he ever discouraged this behaviour - far from it. 

“You took your time,” He breathes the words directly into Howard’s mouth. The door of the taxi has barely slammed shut behind them before he’s scrambling to close every inch of space between them. 

Howard thinks, if he could, Vince would find a way of physically climbing inside of him so that they could exist as one. 

“You’re _such_ a tart,” He growls, a noise he isn’t sure he can make outside of this situation. It makes Vince gasp against his cheek. 

The taxi driver is eyeing them warily, and Howard still has enough sense of mind to worry about what they must look like. Rough fingers grip at the nape of Vince’s neck and forcibly (it’s actually quite gentle) removes him from his lap. 

Vince whines, puppyish, at being denied. 

Howard smirks at him. “Don’t worry,” He rumbles, voice low and secretive. “You’re not getting off lightly.”


	2. We're taking back control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince get's what he wants, and, well, Howard does too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and ye shall receive!  
> People seemed interested in a follow up and I quite fancied trying my hand at smut so here it is! Be warned I have *never* written anything explicit before (thus might be bad and/or ooc) so be gentle.  
> That being said, enjoy it, cause it was pretty fun to write

Occasionally Vince gets a feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

Like something dangerous has woken up. It’s poison floods his veins. Growls rumble in his head. If he doesn’t purge it, then it threatens to claw its way out of him. It ruins everything he touches with snapped insults and thoughtless comments. This thing. This beast in him, requires an exorcism of the sensual kind. 

That’s where Howard comes in. 

It’s a wonder the man manages to get the door open at all. Once they have finally clambered from the taxi (the driver gets a hefty tip after dealing with Howard’s filthy mutterings and Vince’s breathy whines for the whole journey) Vince wastes no time in crowding as close to him as he can; chest plastered along his back as he searches for his keys. 

Vince knew he was in trouble (that was rather the point) but brat was his middle name on days like this. Inquisitive fingers are wiggling their way into Howard’s front pockets even as he grunts and hisses warnings at him.

Might as well hand him a shovel because he will dig his own grave before he stops misbehaving. 

The keys have been found but, adorably, Howard’s fingers still tremble around the unlocking process. This is a game neither of them are new to playing but Howard can be a victim of his own head sometimes - thinking much too hard about the little things. 

Like the fact Vince is a needy creature and has no problem getting things started in the street if he has to. 

As an incentive he presses a hand further into that pocket. Cups him through the lining, draws one finger lightly along the shape of his half hard cock. Past Vince had been a real star and picked boots with a heel high enough that he's able to brush his nose along the curve of his throat. It’s the sexiest way of counting down to public exposure. 

Five; hand drawn slowly out of the pocket. Four; tongue darting out to taste Howard’s skin, a heady cocktail of cologne and sweat lingering there. Three; nimble fingers pop the button on Howard’s trousers - before he can get any further there is a rough hand enclosing his wrist. He’s hauled indoors (being treated as if he were weightless by this buffalo of a man always did get him going) and pressed against the nearest flat surface.

The door is kicked closed behind them. Howard stands, breathing coming heavily through his slightly parted lips. They stare at one another wordlessly. 

Howard is (unsurprisingly) typically quite a gentleman in bed. Ladies first and all that. But having to keep up with Vince revealed an appetite for the saucier side of things. Vince has developed methods of teasing these desires from him; things he previously kept locked away in mental boxes marked _‘not appropriate behaviour’_. 

Things like the way he gathers both of Vince’s wrists up in one obscenely large hand and presses them above his head hard enough that his bones grind together. 

Vince’s jaw drops, high pitched moan breaks into a gasp, and it makes his lovers gaze darken. 

Howard Moon was as much of a kinky bitch as Vince was; you just had to know what buttons to push.

Luckily he was a walking switchboard and Vince was the kind of person that liked to just start hitting things until he got the desired result. Even if they were big red buttons labeled _‘Do not touch’._

He hasn’t said a word since the taxi. Not since he’d levered him from his lap and sworn retribution for his behaviour. In the back of his mind he worries this will be it. This silence. Howard knows he struggles with patience - likes to make him wait for that exact reason. Gets off on watching him squirm because then he gets to hold him still. 

“Howard,” He whines again; wriggles under the weight of his partner's intense stare. 

There’s a flicker in that gaze, a flash of smug satisfaction. Like he’d been waiting to hear actual words spill from his mouth. The hand not currently occupied with holding him still clamps over Vince’s mouth. “Shush.”

Somewhere along the line - Howard had learnt how to press his buttons too. 

He’s a multi-instrumentalist and Vince is one finely tuned thing he has spent hours perfecting; he knows how to make him sing _exactly_ how he wants. 

There’s an unspoken order in play now. Vince knows he won’t get his mouth back until he agrees. He may have started the game but they’re operating by Howard’s rules now - the dark thing inside him loses some of its intensity. 

He nods his head in agreement. Not a sound. The palm moves away, to be replaced by the gentle press of lips instead. A reward for his good behaviour. 

Vince laps at him like a dying man offered water; he tastes like how an oasis in the desert looks. 

When he draws away Howard’s gaze is calculating. One hand still holding Vince in place, the other trails fingertips feather light at the hollow of Vince’s throat, down over one exposed collarbone. It’s like he can’t decide where to start. Which piece of him he wants to break off first in this task of taking him apart and putting him back together again. 

Vince’s throat bobs as he swallows. He can feel the game slipping away - even when you wind Howard up enough to play he can still be a bit of an over thinker. 

That’s what bad behaviour was invented for, in Vince’s humble opinion, it helps with the _impulse_ of a thing. 

So he presses his hips forward in desperate search of contact. 

Howard makes that noise again - the one that sends heat licking up his spine. The growl. So unfiltered and animalistic he can’t help but drop his head back against the wall and keen; expressing his submissive nature at best he can. 

He’s dragged from the wall then, hands freed because Howard’s paws are on his hips instead, pulling him close so he can swallow that sound directly from the source. This kiss is nothing like the soft trace of reward he’d been given just a moment ago. This is an assertion of power. 

There’s pointed canines pulling at his bottom lip and a tongue pressing into him. It’s a fight to catch his breath in between but it’s what he needs. He's drunk on it. Heady with how much he's _wanted._ All he can do is clutch at the fabric of his partner’s shirt and tilt his head obediently.

They’re backing towards the stairs to the flat. Or rather, Vince is. Stumbling in his heels as Howard uses his height advantage to force him into motion. He doesn’t get the chance to gasp that he’s going to have to turn around in order to _go up_ them - because apparently that’s not what Howard wants. Not even close. 

Vince’s feet connect with the bottom step and it nearly sends him sprawling; Howard’s there to catch him. Shockingly strong arms encircle his waist, support him where he hangs, prevent him from crashing painfully downwards. Instead he's lowered to sit on the steps. Howard falls to his knees one step down from him. 

Mustache tickles at his jaw, Howard lapping just below his ear; a hand on each knee pushes his legs apart so he can settle between them comfortably. 

And every time Vince has ever called Howard boring replays like his life flashing before his eyes. Obviously he hadn’t known what he was doing. Dragging Howard’s good name through the mud like that. He should issue a formal apology. Write a retraction. Scream it from the rooftops, _I was wrong._ He was unfounded in those accusations, clearly. Because anyone who is willing to have sex _on_ _the stairs_ is not a boring person. 

Howard nips at his ear and he can’t help himself, he moans, light and airy. 

The other man withdraws. He angles himself back a little, frowning down at Vince like he’s a naughty schoolboy (and there’s an idea to be filed away for later). 

“You think you’re so clever,” He rumbles, practiced fingers unbuttoning his fly. “I know exactly what you’re doing, you know.” 

“That was kinda the point,” All respect for the rules tossed out the window. He can never help himself. Howard knows this - breaking the rules was fun for both of them for very different reasons. 

His trousers and underwear are yanked down in one aggressive motion, forcing him to lift his hips to allow it to happen. Now bare arsed against the cool wood of the steps, you’d think he’d lose some of his tendency to play up. 

You’d be wrong. 

“I thought I told you to shut up”

“Technically you didn’t _tell_ me anything,” Vince breathes, defiant. “Just gave me one of those perverted little looks.” 

“Then I’m telling you now.” Howard’s lip twitches; the beginnings of a snarl. “Shut up.” 

“Or what?” 

And look, Vince loves Howard being in control. He craves it. That’s the whole point - but it’s not fun to just lie there and take it like a demure lady with a roguish husband; dutifully spreading her legs and thinking of England. No, it's much more fun when you can be bad; inspire a flash of irritation in tiny brown peepers. That’s where Vince get's his kicks. 

“Or I’ll come at you. Hard.” And it should be funny, that age old saying being rasped darkly at him. But it’s not. It’s sinfully thrilling. 

Doesn’t stop a breathy laugh bubbling from his chest. It's another sound that Howard will not stand for and he does actually come at him. Shocks him, if he’s honest. Which is always nice; that they can still surprise one another like this. Tosses him around like a rag doll. Pulls his pants down to his ankles and uses the grip on his bare hip to urge him onto his knees. 

The wood bites into his skin but he loves it. Howard has moved closer and is looming over him, chest pressed into his back and one big hand over his mouth again while the other one grabs a healthy fist load of his arse. “You never learn,” He hisses into his ear. 

Vince’s throat hurts with the pitch of the whine he sends into the air, pushes back into that hand and gets a rough pinch for his efforts. 

“Tarting yourself around like that.” Howard goes on; fingers ghost around his hip down the front of his thighs, across his stomach under his blouse. They’re nowhere near where he wants them to be. “And you’re not even sorry are you? You _like_ it.” 

Howard’s hand is still around his mouth, preventing him from verbally responding. But he wants that - Vince is a loud lover - he wants him to work for it. So he forces himself to hold back a gasp as Howard finally wraps a dry hand around his length. He hasn't moved yet. Just holds him in a loose grip.

It’s maddening in the best way. 

“You like people looking at you,” He’s always loved Howard’s voice, and by god does the fucker know how to use it when he wants to. It hits him low in his stomach, killing his internal beast dead and instead inspiring a whole new one. It’s called desperation. “Wonder what they’d think if they saw you like this; whining on your hands and knees for me.” 

Vince bites his tongue so hard he tastes copper. But Howard must be pleased with his commitment if the way he rewards him with one slow stroke to his cock is anything to go by. 

“Are you going to stay quiet this time?” He asks, and Vince once more bobs his head in a wordless agreement. “Good boy.” 

The praise drips onto him like hot wax; his whole body trembles. 

Howard must be getting a bit desperate too. He sounds as collected as ever but Vince hears the distinct sound of a zipper behind him the second his mouth is released. The digits still holding his length give a gentle squeeze.

He doesn’t dare turn his head to see what's happening, just uses the clues of sound to piece together a picture. An obscene wet noise and then pumping flesh, Howard touching himself. No doubt appreciating the submissive look on Vince - it’s one hell of a thing considering their positions are usually reversed - he knows exactly what he is doing when he drops from his hands onto his elbows; arse in the air and his head hung low.

Call him the Michelangelo of sex because he will paint you a masterpiece of your desires. 

“Fuck, Vince-” Howard breathes it like a prayer (he’s the fucking Sistine Chapel) and then the hand around his cock is gone. Half a grunt slips from him but is quickly stifled when he gets a tap on his thigh for the effort. 

That wet sucking noise again and then there’s fingers at his entrance. It startles him enough that he whimpers roughly; but Howard is too busy being a _goddamn tease_ to punish him for it. He’s circling gently, fingers slick with his own spit. It’s _utterly_ filthy and he knows that later, when Howard’s back to himself, he will grumble about the unsanitary nature of it all. 

Right now? It’s doing it for Vince. 

One of those fingers presses at his entrance, works inside of him slowly and Vince cannot be held responsible for the _“Christ!”_ that tears from his throat. Howard just shushes him, holds him at the hip because he’s begun to wriggle again; attempting to hurry the process along just a little but Howard won’t indulge him. Stills his finger until Vince gets himself back under control. 

Then he presses forward, dragging in and out at a leisurely pace. 

Spit won’t get them very far, he knows it. So despite it being against the rules he forces out, “In my trouser pocket,” From between clenched teeth. 

All contact leaves him. Fingers and hands gone, as they rustle around in the fabric pooled at Vince’s ankles. 

“Why do you-” 

“Just in case we didn’t make it home.” Vince replies, sagging against the stairs. “Hurry up.” 

As eager to get on as he is, Howard has completely given up trying to enforce silence upon him. Vince hears the tear of a packet and then there's a squelch of lube; this time there’s two fingers at his entrance “God, _Howard_ ,” He whines when they press inside. 

Apt really, because Vince is fairly sure those fingers were a gift from God himself they way they curl inside him. 

His back bows, hips rolling back into the motion. Howard still grips him at the waist but he isn’t doing anything to prevent this from happening. Rather he stops flexing his wrist long enough to just observe the way Vince urgently fucks himself. 

Then he twists his wrist and “Oh- Oh _fuck_ ,” Howard isn’t even touching him but he’s been wound up since the taxi and he’s suddenly _right there_. “I’m gonna-” 

“You’re not.” Howard responds, sounding a lot calmer than he probably is. He pulls his fingers out a little, adds more lube, and presses in with three this time. The stretch aches beautifully and at the same time tortures him. He doesn’t want fingers anymore - he wants to come with Howard in him. 

“ _Please_ , I can’t-” 

Howard runs his dry palm up Vince’s spine. Fingers tangle themselves in his raven locks and use the grip to pull his head up; it stings but in a way Vince adores. Throat exposed, Howard leans over him again to bite at the crook of his neck.

“Don’t you _dare_.” He warns; three fingers deep he twists his wrist again and Vince _sobs._

He’s _genuinely_ afraid he won’t last. Tries running a film reel of undesirable topics in his head just to prevent himself from coming untouched all over their stairs. 

Fuck. They haven't even made it _into the flat_. And Howard demonstrating just how much he can be an immodest freak in the right situations does precisely nothing to help him. He’s whimpering like a bitch in heat with almost every press of Howard’s fingers now, brushing his prostate on every pass like he’s testing him. Seeing how far he can push before Vince shatters into a million pieces. 

Eventually, Howard pulls his earlobe between his teeth and hums his approval for the level of control he’s demonstrating. “You’ve done so well.”

It’s very nearly his undoing. 

Fingers withdraw (both from hair and from arse) but it’s not for long, thankfully. The sound of leisurely stokes, flesh on flesh, and then Howard is nudging at his entrance. 

He’s not remotely slow about pressing inside; knows Vince likes to feel it for days after if he can help it. It’s one smooth motion, that draws out a lengthy squeal from Vince, until Howard’s hips are flush with him. He can feel the material of his trousers, not even bothered to undress properly past getting his cock out. Which for some reason is the hottest thing he can ever have imagined. He waits, just for a breath, before he’s withdrawing and pistoning his hips forward again. 

“Fuck, _y_ _es_ , Howard.” Vince presses himself up onto his hands again, using the momentum to push himself back against his lover on every thrust. He’s practically howling at this point, every movement dragging high moans and whimpers from him. He’s chanting the same four words over and over in varying combinations. 

Howard isn’t as loud. He’s practically mute in comparison, only panting roughly and occasionally chiming in with his own breathy curse. Vince makes enough noise for the both of them though. Even if he does like making him be quiet, Howard _definitely_ gets off on the volume. 

He leans over him again, one hand wrapping around the base of his neck in a rough grip. He angles his hips just so and Vince sees stars, thumps his hand down against the wood of the stairs and three of his treasured words drop right out of his head. Now it’s only a mantra of, “Yes, yes, yes, yes!” 

He’s so close. Teetering on the edge of an abyss and just _dying_ for an excuse to throw himself over. 

And Howard knows Vince’s body intimately well. Well enough he probably sees the telltale tremor of his thighs, the way his back arches like a cat in the sun, how his nails dig into the surface they’re resting on, and understands exactly what he needs to do. 

Ladies first. 

Gripping his cock in one hand, all it takes is a few sloppy jerks and Howard growling, “Mine,” directly into his ear and he’s coming all over their stairs. 

Howard grips bony hips hard enough to bruise; fucks harder into his spent body. Vince helps him on the way; panting high pitched and whiny just as Howard likes. He spills anything that pops into his head about how well Howard fucks him, how _incredible_ he is. How he’ll be feeling him for days. Howard comes with a satisfying snarl of Vince’s name. 

The pair of them, boneless and satiated, remain there for only a minute before Howard’s switch is flipped back to the default concern. He’s gingerly drawing away to ask, “You alright?” 

“Hm,” Is the only response Vince can give right now. He’s fairly sure most of his vocabulary has been buggered right out of him. 

Howard chuckles gently, but does dig a handkerchief from his pocket (because as it happens Vince is in a relationship with an _actual gentleman_ that carries proper handkerchiefs around) and starts dutifully cleaning them both up. 

“That was genius.” He breathes eventually, when his partner is helping him off the stairs and aiding him in pulling his trousers back up. “On _the stairs_ , Howard? That’s a new one.” 

“Didn’t think we would make it to the bedroom, you were gagging for it.” 

“Me?” Vince snaps, voice shooting up in pitch around his outrage. “You didn’t even take your clothes off.” 

“Well,” Howard’s cheeks have gone a lovely shade of pink. It’s like having two completely different boyfriends when you experience the clashing personalities so close together like this. “It’s drafty down here.” 

He’s so overcome with affection that he forgets to have a witty response. Rather, just pulls Howard to him by the lapels of the jacket he’s still wearing (he literally did not shed a _single_ item of clothing) to press an affectionate kiss to his rouged cheeks. “I love you.” He hums cheerfully. 

Howard’s blush deepens. “I love you too.” He mumbles. 

“Good,” Vince links their fingers together easily and gives him a little tug. “Now I think we’re both in need of a shower.” 

This time they actually make it up the stairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where my apologies should go. 
> 
> Feel free to hmu on tumblr! @crazy-mad-insane / @anciientboosh

**Author's Note:**

> As ever I can be found on tumblr:
> 
> @queen-boo / @Anciientboosh


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